


Different

by WhiteFoxKitsune (ProwlingThunder)



Series: Little Stars [35]
Category: Invasion America (Cartoon)
Genre: Alien Culture, Courting Ceremonies, Death Penalties, Dragit's Kids, Execution, Homophobia, Homosexuality is Illegal, M/M, Public Execution, Public Torture, Torture, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8126785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/WhiteFoxKitsune
Summary: Life on Tyrus isn't simple, and different is never good.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic I wrote. I've gotten better.

Nebrija had always known he was different.  
  
It wasn't anything physical. He looked like his father, a carbon copy down to all but the teeth, which were flat instead of razors. (Nebrija couldn't think of how he'd close his mouth with teeth like his father's; wouldn't he bite off his tongue?) He was small, but his mother had always assured him he'd grow big and strong, just like his father. Still, the difference _was_ there. Whatever it was, it remained present. Nebrija simply never tried to put his finger on it. (It scared him to wonder. What if something was wrong with him?)  
  
 ***-*-***  
  
He knew who he was, of course, even from the youngest age. He'd grown up with his lineage instilled in him from the womb.  
  
He was the son of the Dragit, the leader of their military, who's prowess swept away evils and cowed the Empire. (His father was his father. His father would never exist in the Hall of Oosha. He would never know his father's name.) His father was the son of the red-haired body of Cale-Oosha, Vytis the Conqueror, who stormed The Enemy that had cursed them with Loss. (Nebrija knew neither who The Enemy were, nor what the Loss was, but Vytis had done it.) His grandfather was the son of his own mother, also Cale-Oosha-- Vritra of the Rivers, who ended the theft of children, who was a mother of orphans, who saw the child-thieves rightly punished to end the fear of the people. (Nebrija loved stories of Vritra. He knew them all. Vritra made certain the Jedi would never haunt anyone again. He knew instead they feared her name.)  
  
He was the son of Harissa, a Hellspawn of Bennu, who's raw power made lesser men quake and drove off the Halavalomka, and no soul-stealer could touch her. (He loved her. She was his mother and  she believed he was perfect, no matter how different he knew he was.) His mother was the daughter of Kadell, Priest of Bennu, who sacrificed his own wife to bring Bennu's Chosen treasure into the world. (Nebrija tried very hard to stay out of his grandfather's way. Grandfather was never fond of his mother.) His grandfather was the son of Antti, Bennu's Truly Blessed, who had led the Church's circle of the Great War-God in tribune during the reign of Vytis the Conqueror, and so brought victory to them. (Nebrija was grateful for him, otherwise, they might have never made revenge for the Loss.)   
  
He was the nephew of Cale-Oosha, Naoko of Justice, who believed all lives were equal, and had died of plague. (He didn't remember him. But history class said he was peaceful and good, and that he had tried to help the peasants, even as their world began to waste away. Nebrija was sure he was special.) Naoko was his father's brother, and so his father was of Oosha's blood, and that was that.  
  
He was the cousin of Cale-Oosha, Cale the Martyred, who had never deserved to die trying to make peace with Earth-men. (Nebrija was one when he died, and he'd only met him once otherwise, for the space of a whole three minutes. But he remembered his cousin's voice, gentle and warm, and a buffer from all life troubles for the time he was there.)  
  
By the time he was ten, Nebrija could trace his father's family tree back to the beginning with little effort. It was just something a Prince could do, and his brothers followed him with little trouble. Feydan told him he was paving the way. (Feydan was his best friend, and he'd never lie, so his word could be trusted.)  
  
 ***-*-***  
  
Nebrija knew what was wrong with him when he was thirteen, tucked in the Academy for Basics, nearly a proper adult. Being Royalty meant little, in the Academy. Even Peasantry outside the Domes came in for Basic. It was something Naoko-Oosha had done, and something that maintained beyond the death of the now-dead Cale, may his Body rest and the Oosha preserve.  
  
Yet, Nebrija was far ahead of his age-group. The Matriarch saw to it he and his brothers had the finest tutors for the most basics of schooling, and his mother promised the real reason he went to the Academy was to learn how to socialize in a far gentler place then the palace. As a result, however, Nebrija studied and bunked with near-graduates, little more then two years from leaving the Academy altogether. (They were fifteen, and so much bigger then he was; it was hard.)  
  
Life was made easier by his roommate, a peasant by the name of Arzu. Arzu had been different, too, though like Nebrija he'd looked normal. His hair was a sickly-dark shade of purple, nearly black, and his eyes had been bright, Tyrusian violet. Proper enough colors. He was a Hellspawn. (Nebrija never understood why Mizraim didn't like the Peasantry. Everybody was nice to him.)  
  
Arzu had been smaller then other near-graduates. He'd confided in Nebrija that he wanted to make the Military cut, hit the marks to get pulled into Advanced Training. Nebrija hadn't, of course, but he knew a thing or two about being small and in fights, so he and Arzu had made up ways to practice when they weren't in Hand-to-Hand or Weapons.  
  
Nebrija was good in most classes, but by near-graduate, the weapons needed a mental precision that he didn't have. He wasn't even allowed to participate. The instructor always set him aside, and so he usually spent the time by fiddling with his talisman, wishing it were different. Practice with Arzu _was_ different. (The first time Arzu had coaxed him to take off the beads, Nebrija had accidentally blown up the bunks. They'd spent three weeks scrubbing floors all the floors in the Academy, but Arzu's smile had been worth it.)  
  
The first time they'd laced fingers, it had been an accident; they had simply been late for class, and Arzu had drug him there, fingers locked to make sure he didn't slip. Nobody else had noticed, but Nebrija had. They didn't speak of it either, pretending not to notice. It was another two months before Nebrija got the courage to reach out and touch Arzu's fingertips again, in the emptiness of a hall after class. He'd never felt happier then when Arzu had curled his fingers, but they'd kept a watch for onlookers, just the same.  
  
It was just that for a while. Gentle little touches, what anyone else might mistake for soothing gestures. Their first kiss hadn't even really been a kiss. (Nebrija had some sauce on the corner of his mouth; it had been Arzu's favorite. It had been impulse; neither of them had planned it, neither had asked. They'd both been frightened to the bone. But the next week, Arzu caught his hand and pulled them into a storage closet, and Nebrija'd said yes.) They didn't know it was wrong.  
  
It had existed to graduation. Still, when Nebrija was crying his eyes out, Arzu had promised to write to him from Advanced. They snuck out of the Dome graduation night to watch fuzzy, mostly hidden dots. Nebrija'd never been outside the city, and within the hour he was coughing bad enough he had to visit the medtech. Arzu had stayed close, seeming nothing more then an ever-vigilant friend.  
  
They made it to Step Four the night before Arzu was shipping out to Advanced, in another city entirely, and Nebrija was going home. Promises that didn't last. (Nebrija was barely fifteen when he watched his first execution. It simply wasn't fair.)  
  
 ***-*-***  
  
His father called it "Treason." A failure to preform one's duties to their people. Nebrija hadn't wanted to go, but it was his duty, as the eldest Prince. At the very least, he hadn't had to stand by his father's side. He'd been in a lower balcony, surrounded by nobles who jeered, and his heart had frozen when the prisoners had been brought out, a Crier listing their crimes. It wasn't even a law Nebrija had known. He had simply listened, numb with confusion, as they were left unnamed, but Nebrija had known the smallest of the pair with his soul.  
  
Arzu's letters were hidden in a nook in his room, behind one of the rafters. A special place Nebrija kept precious things, so the maids wouldn't throw them out on accident. He knew the other's name as well, but he didn't remember it now; he'd just been someone who'd been trying to pursue Arzu in training. Arzu'd have none of it, he'd swore he wouldn't. His heart belonged to Nebrija, as Nebrija had given him his. It was a trust Nebrija knew bone-deep wouldn't be broken. (Arzu was nothing if not honest. He'd never be able to lie to save his life. That's why he was here now.)  
  
"For crimes against the People and the Crown, you are found guilty and are hereby to be put to death!" (His father's words would haunt him forever.)  
  
He wanted to look away as they forced Arzu into place. But Arzu had caught his gaze, looking as horrified as he felt, and Nebrija couldn't look away from him. It wasn't right to be there. Why did he have to be here, to watch this? He couldn't even take heart in the fact that Arzu's last sight would be him. He couldn't even smile at him. His face was frozen. He couldn't breath. (He couldn't move; they were going to kill Arzu and he couldn't move!)  
  
Arzu struggled against them, seeming desperate, and they forced him back onto the nails of the rack. Tyrusians held him, Tyrusians bound his wrists and ankles. Then his father gave the order, and a big, burly Tyrusian wrenched the wheel. Tyrusians crowed.  
  
Nebrija's blood ran cold.  
  
 ***-*-***  
  
The screaming lasted for hours. Eventually, the executioner silenced them by cutting the vocal cords, and before long, they were dead. It didn't rain in the Domes. Nebrija simply stood unmoving as the balconies emptied, as his father went home. (If he sent someone to fetch him, Nebrija didn't know.)  
  
It was well after dark when the Matriarch found him, the day now passed from the execution at noon. Nebrija hadn't been able to look away, but his eyes were dry until the aged woman touched his shoulder in some sort of sympathy. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. But Nebrija didn't dare sob as she took him back to the palace and put him to bed, loading him with blankets as she called a trusted healer. (He was running a fever higher then should have killed a grown man.)  
  
Lost to himself, Nebrija was simply too cold to feel the fear of death. (He wanted to die, he needed to die. He'd just stood there while they...!) The Matriarch did not leave him, and when he was warm again, ages later, all he knew was that he did not want to be different any longer.


End file.
